


The Dead Marshes

by SloanGreyMercyDeath



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: AU, F/F, Heroes, It's a spooky Marsh dead people fic, Lady in the Lake, Reunited Loves, Sex in a forest at high noon, Swords, The Dead Marshes, because sometimes we can have it all, but also a sweet summer smut fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 01:41:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17819411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SloanGreyMercyDeath/pseuds/SloanGreyMercyDeath
Summary: It was her lover that had taught her magic, though neither had known what it was, and it was her lover that made Root come back, though she could not choose how. When Root had stared into the face of God and demanded a return to her wild hunter-lover, she’d allowed herself to make a bargain.If a hero could take the sword from her in her frozen Marsh, then Root would find her love again.7/52





	The Dead Marshes

Fog creeps up from the water’s surface like the ghost of winters past. Beneath it, the water is hidden, deep and still like death. The fog is so thick and opaque that nothing can pass through it. Even the wind doesn’t blow low enough to move it from where it has settled.

It is always a winter night in the Marsh. The warmth of sun and summer cannot reach the place where heroes come to die and so the season never changes. The Marsh is always quiet save for the croak of frogs that moved into the Marsh before the fog settled. It sounds like there are thousands, but it could be only a few whose cries echo and multiply.

It is home. The freezing water clings to Root and she feels the chill in her bones. It is pleasant and familiar. Her duty has kept her under the water for centuries now as she waits for some young hero worthy of the sword she clings to with stiff, blue fingers. It’s her only job, to hold and wait and listen, but she loves it.

The time spent in the Marsh isn’t lonely. The solitary nature of her life is a comfort that she relishes in. In her lifetime, she was a princess and then a witch. Born into luxury, but cursed with powers and when she gained the power of the throne she was destroyed by jealous, mortal men. She is only a little bit angry now.

In death, she found a new life, suspended in an almost cryogenic sleep, the icy water keeping her together and letting her wait. There are other lives below this water. Algae hangs from Root’s toes, Marsh grass hugs her legs, her gown, once white and pristine, now moves around her with its own ghostly mind. Her hair is still its perfect brown and flows, but stays out of her face, letting her peer up through the water into the fog.

Some days, a hero comes into the Marsh, searching for the princess and the witch and the sword. They rarely find her. When they do, Root reaches up with a pale blue hand, tinted from the cold, Marsh water that serves as her home, and grasps the hero’s throat. They usually die.

Their bodies sink past Root to the Marsh’s floor. Where she lives just beneath the surface, her dead companions line the bottom of her perpetual winter home and feed the grass that caresses Root’s legs. She imagines the bodies are beautiful women and the grass the wisps of their love.

In her youth, so many years ago, Root loved a woman, alive and wonderful. She had been beautiful, a forest dweller, always dry and warm and serious. Her hair and eyes were always wild and, even when they were obsessed with each other, her lover was always aware of the dangers of the living.

It was her lover that had taught her magic, though neither had known what it was, and it was her lover that made Root come back, though she could not choose how. When Root had stared into the face of God and demanded a return to her wild hunter-lover, she’d allowed herself to make a bargain.

If a hero could take the sword from her in her frozen Marsh, then Root would find her love again.

Now the memory of her lover lives with her in her foggy, frozen home. The time she has, endless days and years, let her spend her life in her memories. They warm her, fill her with the light she does not get from the sun, and keep her alive in her suspended state. Root loves her memories, loves her lover, loves the tantalizing wait until they can be together again.

Her favorite memory exists right before her death. It was high noon and at that time they lived in the forest. Root was waiting for her mother to die, so she could become queen and rule her country, fair and wise. Her magic was coiled inside of her like a trap, waiting for the right time to spring out and ruin her, destroy her, expose her.

She didn’t know that then. All she knew was that the sun was high and the grass was green and her lover was beautiful and wild. Root can remember, recall at any time, that heat that warmed her from the outside and within. The heat of her lover’s hands on her skin and the warm breath from her lover’s mouth.

Root wore so many layers then, petticoats and slips and a corset, bodice, waistcoat, cloak. She wore stockings and gloves and hats, necklaces, earrings, shoes. Now, she wears almost nothing. Just the nightgown she was burned in when she was pulled from her bed into the streets. Then, she suffocated.

Her lover always freed her. Root remembers the gentle touches of rough fingers as they removed the ribbon from her dress, the cloth whispering reprimands as it was pulled through fancy wool. Her lover always tossed it aside and they’d spend precious minutes searching for it later.

Once her outer dress was off, her lover would remove all her petticoats. Pounds of skirts were taken from her and she always felt light enough to fly when they were gone. After that, there was a gasp as Root sucked in air when her corset disappeared. Root would suck in the air that she was always denied and then gasp again as her lover’s warm fingers slid down her skin, brushed against her tender stomach and smoothed themselves over sensitive breasts.

Sometimes, Root wonders if she would have felt the same with another lover. If a knight had gotten to her first, would she have loved men? If a servant that had bathed her in her youth had moved on to sweet caresses when they grew older, would Root have found love within the walls of the castle? It didn’t matter now. All possibilities had ended when Root had met her lover one day in the woods.

She’d been searching for honeysuckle, slightly poisonous and very sweet. Her not-yet-lover had ambushed her, almost slicing her neck with a blade, only lowering it when their eyes had met. It took them years to fall in love. Root had been a child then, barely eighteen, and knew nothing of the world outside her guarded home.

In time, they came together. Root had fallen desperately in love and her lover had come to trust and tolerate her. They loved each other until their love went up in flame.

In the present, foggy, frozen Marsh, Root cleared her head and tried to return to thoughts of high noon and fingers calloused from labor running over her sheltered skin. Her lover wasn’t always gentle with her.

That day before her final nightmare, Root can remember, was not gentle at all. Her lover had pushed her into the grass, pressed her hot body on top of Root’s until Root felt like she was burning. A rough hand wrapped around her throat as the other scrapped down Root’s fragile side. It made Root gasp for lack of air, the control her lover exerted making her heart race and body thrum.

Her lover, like always, found Root’s body wet. Her fingers slid easily inside, making Root groan and growl in the quiet forest. Dry grass stuck to Root’s sweating skin, and her feet slipped on the ground as she spread her legs and invited her lover closer. The hand at her throat had tightened, and both of Root’s delicate hands wrapped around a straining wrist.

It was her lover’s eyes that always spurred Root on. The deep, dark depths drew her in, captivated her, and forced Root to trust that this was not the moment of her death. The lack of control made her dizzy in a way she could only get this close to the sun and her lover. These moments, with her lover moving inside her, her body aflame, her breathe gone, were the only moments Root felt alive.

Underwater, in the silence and the cold, remembering the moment she exploded, her lover guiding her to climax and heaven, makes her feel alive again. Even now, when she can’t recall the last time her Marsh has had a visitor, she thinks of her lover’s subtle smile and finds herself full of patience.

The fog above her shifts and Root stares up through the surface with wide and ready eyes. Only the entrance of a living person could make the fog shift and now it seemed to surge as if blown about by a tempest. Root doesn’t dare hope that this hero will live. They never do.

Instead, she listens for the splash of footsteps and thinks about the long talks she had with her dry, forest lover. Her lover was not a conversationalist, but she would always listen to Root. She loved poetry. The books that Root snuck from her stone cage and read aloud to her lover and the forest always made their time together longer.

When they’d parted for the last time, not knowing to say goodbye, Root had left a book, like she usually did. Her lover had a cabin in the forest, full of furs and food and fire, and over the years a library had formed. Stacked against a wooden wall were the books that Root had brought her. She didn’t know if her lover read without her, but they were a promise of words and return.

A splash stirs Root from her thoughts, and she takes a breath of frosty water. It swirls inside her, pulling her from her waking slumber and readies her for her duty. The splash is closer and Root turns her head, seeing thick, unfamiliar boots stalking towards her.

She lifts her sword from the water and the boots halt. Normally, the sight of the sword brings them closer, but now they stand on the end of the cliff, one step from sinking into Root’s waiting depths. A hand reaches into the water and grasps Root’s arm, lifting her from her home and into the air.

It is bright, too bright for Root’s nocturnal eyes, and she screams. The sword falls, but there is no splash. She is only half-free of the water, her legs still suck in the freezing water, still safe in their home. Root fights to free herself, panicked and wild.

There is no use. She cannot see with her eyes closed against a sun that has not shown in centuries and the grip around her frozen arm is bruising and burning and unbreakable. Her movements are sluggish from years of cold and her mind is sluggish, too.

She shudders and stops fighting, falls limp, and feels an arm wrap around her waist and move her out of the water. There is dry grass beneath her now. Her soaking wet nightgown clings to her, but she can feel the stiff grass under her as her captor lays her down.

“Root?” a voice asks above her, startling her like the loud crash of a tree in a summer forest.

Shuddering, the heat as tortuous as the cold was, Root coughs. The taste of dirt and death and stale water fills her mouth and flaming hands turn her onto her side.

“Shit,” her captor curses, prying tendrils of hair from Root’s slowly thawing face. “Don’t move.”

Root laughs and it turns into a cough. Where would she move? Her body is still as cold as death and her eyes have not yet adjusted to a sun they have never seen. When Root was reborn, she’d awoke in the water, born in the dead of night, layers between her and the pale moon. Now, she finds herself in the daytime, sun blinding her even through her closed eyelids.

A moment passes and something large and heavy comes to rest upon her. Her fingers twitch, grasping at it, the memory of wool telling her that it is a blanket. She is covered by a blanket, her toes already warming and curling into themselves.

Trying to blink as her coughing subsides, Root pushes herself up onto an arm. It is truly daytime, the sun illuminating the Marsh around her. There is no fog around her and the water shines clear and bright. Root starts to sit up and arms surround her again, lifting her.

“Slowly,” her captor orders her, voice firm and undeniable. “It took me forever to find you. Don’t hurt yourself.”

Root finally looks at her captor, eyes not understanding the vision before them.

It is her lover, though something is different about her face. She is not scarred in the same way she was. Her eyes are calm and observant, the wildness gone. Her hair is neat and straight, no longer tangled from forest and fighting. Her clothing is nothing like what she wore. There is no fur or leather surrounding her frame, only some thin black cloth.

Root throws herself at her scorching lover, her stiff limbs bending to wrap around strong shoulders. “I’ve been waiting,” she sobs into a tense neck. “I’ve been waiting for so long.”

Sameen hugs her close, arms squeezing the breath from Root’s unsteady lungs. “You picked a good place to hide. I fought the Devil to find you.”

“I bet you nearly killed him.”

“I murdered the Devil so God would give up your location.”

Root drew a shaking breath, glad that her lover still smelled like pine and ash and blood. “I know it’s been too long. I hope you’ll have patience to teach me the ways of this new world.”

“You’ll be great,” Sameen murmured. Her body burned against Root’s own. “They have no magic here, but you’re smart as hell. I’m sure you’ll be queen again.”

“We’ll rule together.” Root pulled away, a spark of something burning its way into her heart. “This time we’ll burn them down.”

Sameen grinned and Root watched a glint of wildness creep back into her eyes. “Don’t worry. I’ve already begun.”


End file.
